Good at counting.

Truly. I get caught up in doing what people tell me to do. Ruled by my superego and need to let the id out to play more. If I ascribed to that kind of stuff. And even though my CBT heart cries out against it, I totally do. Freud is such a cheeky bastard (and I never knew his middle name was Schlomo. Kind of liking him a little more now).

I've been a bad blog parent, as Bum has gently reminded me. The neglect is shameful. All my energy has been spent on fighting off a cold (which I've been kind of successful at. Though I think I may be OD-ing on B-12, Vitamin C and zinc), panicking about my dissertation and then panicking again about a huge presentation I have to give at work. With PowerPoint. In front of people. With eyes. Who will ask questions. That I will have to answer. And not run off crying. Or swearing. Or using rampant italics.

I'm just not comfortable with that.

in which i'm bereft of words

Except to say: I saw Russell Crowe sing on Saturday night. Really. With one of my (nostalgic) favourite bands Great Big Sea.

Everything before GBS came on stage had convinced me that age has caught up with me. Drunken louts crowd-surfing and random blokes saying "oh, so how are you Irish?" had nearly made me go home before GBS came on. But, memories of Australia (where I first heard GBS) and of their previous concert made me stick it out. Then, the fantastic surprise. The introduction was well-done and RC was fab.

in which I'm a year older

and yet not much wiser.

Spring break is half over and I've not done much of what I thought I'd have done. That means you, dear reader(s), will have to remain unentertained and/or go elsewhere for your "fun fix" for the next few days. I have two papers to finish (for a conference I'm headed off to in less than ten days), 30-some papers to grade and a journal issue to send off to the publishers.

Of course, spring has chosen this time to make itself known and it's difficult to get things done when it's 60 degrees Fahrenheit out there and people are frolicking in the streets.

One thing though: as I was sat on the metro this morning, I noticed a chap in the seat across me was reading this. I find it intriguing and wonder whether he reckons his sister is a werewolf (ontologically-speaking) or whether he wants to understand whether she is a werewolf and, if so, how to study her (epistemology).

I suppose I should get back to write those papers.

in which I drop in to say hello

Hello.

Swamped with having to grade papers, write two papers for a conference I'm headed off to in a couple of weeks, and making time for an existential crisis (it's Birthday Week this week for me) but I will stop by (all going well, of course) and write you that book review and add a few more things through the week.

For the next two days, I'm off to Woop Woop, a place that has no Internet and where my phone doesn't work.

in which i admire a youthful actor

"admire" being the operative word here. It's rather strange since I often favour tall, strapping types or at least those types of blokes who look as though shaving is something that other, lesser folks do that I have found every one of this chap's films (well, his acting rather than the films) fantastic.

Today, I went and saw Penelope. It feels a bit disjointed and, perhaps, should be a bit longer than it is but for a nice break in the midst of a very busy week, it was all right. It's framed as a fairy tale-ish fantasy rather than reality and that makes it work better than it shoud. I was watching James McAvoy and his utter ordinariness and (rather good, I reckoned) American accent and realised that he has the ability to make kissing a post (*cough* Keira Knightley in Atonement and Anne Hathaway in Becoming Jane *cough*) an act laden with chemistry.

He was the best part of Starter for 10, though the film itself was enjoyable and had an unexpected ending. He wasn't overshadowed by Forest Whitaker in The Last King of Scotland and (all right, please do laugh now) I have a bootlegged copy of Children of Dune nestling away on my computer's hard drive. The faun was probably an error but there's really no going right with fauns. And, Mr. JA didn't have much to do there.

A common thread so far is the class issue--and I rather like that too. The poor young lad who is seduced by upper-class trappings, falls into a life to which he can't quite fit into and is then brought crashingly down (though not always) is a consistent factor in each of these characters. Maybe that's what works. Or, maybe he just oozes chemistry (though one wouldn't be able to tell looking at him :))

I'm looking forward to Wanted now.

Shocking.

You Are 96% Misanthropic

You are misanthropic to the point of being scary. In your view, people are a disease. You may want to lighten up a little - before you become a super villain!

How Misanthropic Are You?

in which i say nothing much,

This is the book that I won in an online contest a few weeks ago. I'll review it in a few days though considering half the online world seems to have already done so, it may be redundant.

But, I'll give it a shot anyway. Did I mention this is the first time I've ever won anything in a contest? Ever? Well it is and that it was a book, one of my favourite ever things is a nice bonus.

Though money would have been best, I reckon. Winning money, that is. I've never been much of a lotto player or into scratchies though I know people who do them every week. Even KiwiSis, normally quite sensible, has a strange and unbreakable attraction to scratchies. I guess it's the hope that one day we can win some cash. Yes, we can.

Orange-y.

I find myself weirdly obsessed with oranges. And vitamin C. I think it's because of the general plague feeling this winter has consisted of.

I've never really loved oranges in the past. I'm an instant gratification kinda gal, and peeling them when the pith gets all under the nails was not very instant-y gratification-y. And, God, if seeds are involved. Yet I don't feel the same way about tangerines. The skin is different. It peels like paper without the soft insulation in between.

So oranges have been my fruit of choice lately. Lots and lots of oranges, or rather, one a day (like an apple. Except oranges. And there I go comparing).

This is, perhaps, not unusual. Except I'm also downing packets of Emergen-C in water every day, too. The Evil Co-Worker recommended it and as she has been less sick than me. With the last illness, I'm willing to try anything. And...it's kind of working. Goddamn Evil Co-Worker with her magic packets of B-12 and vitamins in an effervescent, foul-tasting decoction.

However, I also suspect I am saturating myself with Vitamin C and soon I will become an Oompa-Loompa (obviously this is based on sound medical science. And not random musings I think about instead of my dissertation).

I can probably deal with that. Oompa-Loompas don't have to turn in dissertations. I don't think.

Perhaps I am making unfounded assumptions about the Oompa-Loompa as a people. Perhaps all the vitamin C has finally pickled my brain.

Perhaps.

leap day

Google has a leaping frog where the "l" should be.

A couple of my colleagues at uni told me this is the one day of the year when girls can ask out blokes (and *gasp* even ask for the bloke's hand in marriage!). Which seems rather sad and I don't know if it's even true or they are just pulling the leg of the furriner.

In any case, let's take it as a slightly odd traditional (if not tribal) custom and, in the spirit of the day dear readers, take this as an open invite to join me whenever you are in my part of the world. You will, almost certainly, not have a good time. I hate good times as much as I hate the idea of good. Or time. I actually think I don't much like time.

Where was I? Time. Of course. Did anyone else see the episode of Lost yesterday when Desmond (and who knew a haircut and the addition of a long, Tom Baker-y scarf would make Des oh-so-fanciable, eh?) time travelled?

Wait--oh, yes, good time. No, that will probably not be on the agenda. At all. But I've almost perfected the interested nodding and the encouraging hums so don't be discouraged. I can hold up my end of a conversation. Or, if more than one of yous were to want to join me, I can hold up various conversations.

As noted here. I can hold various conversations at the same time. Right. Invite. Whenever yous are in town. Drop me a line.

Smelly.

I have no interesting excuse. Except for being asleep for most of the past two weeks. I blame the crippling bout of flu. Also: laziness.

I've made a discovery this week. Which is not quite a discovery, and more like a realization. And it's very profound.

The smell of fresh shitake mushrooms is possibly my favorite smell in the entire world. I have a small amount of them sitting in front of me (for the purposes of writing about them! Not because I am a weirdo who sits in front of her computer with a bag of mushrooms. At least not that kind of mushroom. Though I used to love to come into the kitchen and take a deep whiff of sesame oil. Apparently, if I were less high-strung and neurotic, I would be a huffer. Huh.).

I do not enjoy the smell of shitake mushrooms when they are dried, or even when they're cooked, though I do enjoy eating them. But when they're fresh and tender and moist and plump, they emanate this truly lovely smell, which is kind of like fresh bread, soil...and I don't know. Sort of a baby smell. While I don't want to eat a baby, there's something pure and sweet and kind of innocent about the scent. I want my shampoo to smell like this.

This is a reminder to take the time and smell the mushrooms more often.

Or something.